


Treacherous Servant

by InOmniaParatus



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InOmniaParatus/pseuds/InOmniaParatus
Summary: Some people, Harry decided, simply needed to be taught lessons. Manners, human decency, parenting—the general population seemed to be either completely inept or wilfully ignorant. It set his teeth on edge.He couldn’t fathom what it was that caused this lapse—honestly, most things were common sense. Don’t let bad men hurt your child, for example. It was a simple concept, generally taken care of by basic maternal instinct.And yet, here he was reading little Gary Unwin’s hospital record and the related arrest report of one Dean Baker.





	Treacherous Servant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maxamori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxamori/gifts).



> Part of the DKBP Secret Santa
> 
> Freebird is basically the best, as always. 
> 
>  
> 
> Self-justification is a treacherous servant.  
> \- Wellington Mara

Some people, Harry decided, simply needed to be taught lessons. Manners, human decency, parenting—the general population seemed to be either completely inept or wilfully ignorant. It set his teeth on edge.

He couldn’t fathom what it was that caused this lapse—honestly, most things were common sense. Don’t let bad men hurt your child, for example. It was a simple concept, generally taken care of by basic maternal instinct.

And yet, here he was reading little Gary Unwin’s hospital record and the related arrest report of one Dean Baker. The police were going to have to release Baker soon, of course, because the boy’s mother made all the typical, red flag excuses about clumsiness and boys-will-be-boys and the social worker couldn’t get the boy to speak at all.

Lee would be rolling in his grave.

And that was the bit that stuck in Harry’s craw--Lee was an altogether protective creature, a dedicated father, a good man. He’d only been dead eight bloody months, and already the widow had moved on to a man who abused her son. And it was most assuredly abuse. Tripping down a stairwell simply couldn’t cause fractures in that spiral pattern.

Anything could happen and it likely would; Harry saw it in hundreds of scenarios through his work. The human race was nearly impossible to convince that the worst could happen to them. People know, in abstract, that bad things happen. People die of cancer every day, for example. Everyone knows this, they cluck their tongues mournfully and they donate a couple of pounds to the charity tin when they’re asked, but they never truly think that it will touch their lives. That’s just something that happens to other people.

You see the same sort of thing when serial killers are caught: Some baffled neighbour is always in front of a camera, telling all and sundry watching the evening news that they simply cannot believe what has happened. He was such a nice bloke, they say. This is such a quiet town, such a community. Things like this just don’t happen here.

And Michelle Unwin was a prime example of that mentality. Most mothers, when faced with the overwhelming evidence that their child has been abused—perhaps even having witnessed it—would scream it to the world, a steady finger pointed at the villain, and keep screaming until they’ve locked up the abuser and thrown away the key.

They do not, in Harry’s varied experience, keep things quiet. They do not lie to doctors. They do not somehow convince their frightened, broken child to stay silent. No, that’s a different type of mother altogether.

Women like Michelle Unwin are sure it’s just this one time, honey. It won’t happen again. He was just in a bad mood, was just cross because he had a hard day at work. They tell themselves that the most recent incident was the last time, that things will get better if only they behave better. Or the children aren’t so noisy. Or the office wasn’t so stressful. They tell themselves that nothing truly bad will happen. It’s just an accident, a bit of temper. It’s not really child abuse, like you see on the news. That sort of thing happens to other families. Worse ones.

Women like Michelle Unwin never truly believe that tragedy can affect them until it does, and Harry refused to pick up a newspaper one morning and read that Lee Unwin’s son, with his clever eyes and pudgy cheeks, had been murdered by his mother’s drunken lout of a boyfriend.

She’d have to be shown what happens if she allowed dangerous men access to her little boy. It was the only way.

He told her as much, too, but he didn’t reckon she believed him yet. Or perhaps she did. It was difficult to tell once he shot her with that paralysing dart. The ball gag and restraints didn’t lend themselves too well to conversation, either.

No matter. The lesson was meant to be a visual one, anyway.

He shut the wardrobe door, the vent slats on it shimmied open enough to give her a front-row seat, just as the flat’s door opened and a little voice called out: “Mum! I’m home!”

Harry made his way down the hall, the unvacuumed rug keeping his footsteps silent, and listened to the boy’s rambling.

“Can I go play some footie with Ryan and Jamal? I won’t get my cast dirty, swear down.”

He kept on pleading and promising for a few moments more, moments where Harry admired his energy, his resilience. Eggsy must’ve been so frightened through his ordeal and all the while been grieving his father, and still he was bounding around, smiling and laughing and begging to kick a ball around with his mates.

It made him happy to know that the boy had Lee’s strength, that he’d rise above his father’s death and his mother’s neglect, that he’d slough off Baker’s abuse--and even what was about to happen here with Harry--like a snake sheds its skin.

He was a good, strong boy, and Harry felt a surge of pride.

Eggsy let his book bag fall to his feet and raised his chin defiantly. “Who are you?” he asked, in a tone that clearly implied  _ and what do you want _ ?

Harry smiled at the boy, calm and reassuring. “Hello, Eggsy. I’m Harry. I was a friend of your father, do you remember?”

The boy didn’t answer, anxiety starting to sharpen his soft, handsome features. “Where’s my mum?”

Harry suppressed the urge to sigh. He supposed he ought to be glad that someone had at least instilled stranger danger into the boy.

“I’m afraid it’s just you and me for now, Eggsy. I’d like you to follow me, please.”

Eggsy took a step backward towards the door. “Listen, mister, I ain’t gonna tell no one you’re here. I’m just gonna leave and wait for my mum.”

Harry smiled, less softly now, and lifted his hand to show his Kingsman-issued pistol—not to point, not even to threaten, really. Just to show the boy where things stood.

Harry reached forward and placed his hand lightly on the boy’s trembling shoulder. “Follow me, Eggsy.”

He led the child down the hall and into Michelle’s bedroom, applying gentle pressure to his tiny shoulder until he sat on the hideous floral duvet. He felt like a bird under Harry’s large hand—tiny and fragile, pulse hammering wildly.

Part of Harry fretted that he might break the boy. Part of him ached to.

“Now,” he started, more to fill the silence and get things moving along than to actually explain anything. He shut the bedroom door with his foot. “There is a very important reason I’m here, Eggsy, but I won’t burden you with it. The only thing you need to know is that if you’re a good boy and do everything I ask of you, everything will be alright. I’ll even take care of the nasty man who did that to your arm. Would you like that?”

The boy remained silent, his bright, fearful eyes darting from Harry’s gun to the door before settling on the stranger’s face.

Harry crouched down, hoping that being eye level with the boy would be less intimidating for him—if only slightly. He dropped his hand from the boy’s shoulder to his knee, slowly and whisper-soft, and pressed his other hand and the gun within it against his hip. Harry could feel the heat and soft curve though the scratchy trousers of Eggsy’s school uniform.

“You can do that, can’t you, Eggsy? You can be a good boy for me?”

He slid his hand from the boy’s knee, ghosting over his thigh to cup the front of his trousers.

Eggsy’s round little face instantly flushed pink and his bottom lip wobbled pitifully. He painted such a lovely and wretched picture that Harry was at once painfully hard and hopelessly enamoured.

He kneaded his palm over the boy’s crotch, letting the sounds of their laboured breathing fill the room. He struggled against the urge to go faster, to take and consume and devour until they were both spent. This opportunity was a rare and precious thing, Eggsy was a rare and precious thing, wiggling and whimpering against the firm pressure of his hand, and Harry refused to allow himself to fuck it up, to do anything but savour it.

His fingers trembled with excitement as he drew the boy’s zip down. Eggsy became still and silent when Harry drew his trousers and Pokemon pants down to his knees, obviously taking Harry’s good boy request to heart even as his eyes welled up with tears.

Harry didn’t take his eyes off the boy’s face as he wrapped two fingers around his firm little cocklet and began to stroke gently. He was rewarded with a gasp, soft lips parting to expose a set of too-large front teeth and an enticingly pink tongue.

He stared, fixated, at the boy’s mouth while his fingers worked the boy up, changing the rhythm and speed until he was a writhing, mewling mess and Harry thought he might go mad with want.

Eggsy whimpered when Harry withdrew his hand to fumble his own zip, and Harry wasn’t sure if it was the sound that made him moan or the sudden feeling of cool air against his sensitive cock. Eggsy’s eyes widened at the sight and he shifted back a few inches.

Harry stood, pulling Eggsy closer to the edge of the bed as he went. He grasped the boy’s chin with his forefinger and thumb—not hard enough to hurt, but firmly enough to show him that skittering away wouldn’t be permitted. Once the boy had stilled, Harry tapped gently on his rabbity teeth.

“If you bite me,” he said, voice gravelly. “I will rip these right out of your mouth. And there won’t be any new ones coming in to replace them, will there?”

It took a few moments to find a comfortable angle, but then Eggsy’s mouth was heaven. It was smaller, of course, than he was used to, but seemed somehow softer and hotter. Harry quickly decided that nothing in life could feel as good as pressing his cock against the spongy heat at the back of Eggsy’s throat, except perhaps the glorious retching spasms as the boy gagged and struggled against him.

He grasped the back of Eggsy’s neck with his free hand and settled his other hand—and the gun—atop the boy’s head, mindful of the trigger. He used his grip to push and pull the boy, fucking into his mouth and moving his little body with as little effort and care as he would a rag doll.

Eggsy, for his part, could not be more perfect. His sweet, pudgy face had turned so red and his cheeks were wet with tears. His tiny hands pushed against Harry’s thighs, ineffective but oh so erotic, and when Harry drew back to allow the boy a few gasping breaths, thick saliva dripped down his chin.

“Please,” the boy gasped. “Please, I can’t br—”

Fucking Eggsy’s mouth was perfection, and Harry wanted more and more. He wanted to carry on for hours, to feel Eggsy’s hot tears fall on his cock and his angry little fists beat against his sides. He wanted to hear the boy choke on his cum, wanted to clamp his hand over the boy’s mouth until he’d swallowed every drop of it.

But as he felt his orgasm approach, he realised that he didn’t want this to end quite yet. He didn’t only want to hear the boy choke, he wanted to hear the boy, full stop.

He  wanted— _ needed _ —more, and, after all, he wanted to ensure that this lesson would sink in properly, didn’t he?

Harry gripped the boy by the hair and pushed him backwards onto the bed. Eggsy rolled over onto himself, still coughing and choking, paying no mind to Harry as he collected a bottle of lotion from his mother’s bedside table.

He wrinkled his nose at the mess Eggsy made of the duvet. He could feel the boy tremble as Harry pulled him across his lap and shoved his trousers down by his trainers.  He wondered if Eggsy knew what was next, if he’d guessed, if he was afraid.

He gave Eggsy’s bum a squeeze, because he couldn’t help himself, and took a moment to appreciate the sight before him. The boy was slimmer than he was eight months ago, and taller, too. His growth spurt left him a bit gangly, with narrow hips and spindly limbs that made Harry want to see how far Eggsy could bend. His skin was silky-smooth and perfect.

Harry silently slipped his gun back into its holster and clicked open the lotion. He dribbled a bit onto two of his fingers and paused a moment to consider what he was about to do.

With his clean hand, he reached across the boy’s still-panting body and secured his upper arm with a firm grip, right above the cast. Harry didn’t want to set the boy’s recovery back, after all. He wasn’t a monster.

So he secured the boy’s injured arm and, without warning, pushed two fingers into Eggsy’s remarkably tight hole.

Eggsy screamed and kicked his little feet. He begged for Harry to stop in a high, wheedling voice that only spurred Harry on.

He relished the feeling of the tiny, smooth body bucking and writhing against him as he scissored his fingers. A glorious litany of  _ it hurts _ and  _ please  _ and  _ stop _ filled the air and, perhaps best of all, Harry could still feel Eggsy’s firm cocklet pressing against his knee.

He pressed the pads of his fingers against Eggsy’s prostate, rubbing in a small, circular motion. The boy’s begging morphed into panting and needy, whimpering sounds. His struggles became friction-seeking wiggles.

Harry felt it, the moment Eggsy came. He could feel the glorious squeeze around his fingers, the tensing of Eggsy’s tiny body under the weight of Harry’s grasp. He longed to know how it would feel around his throbbing prick in place of his aching fingers.

He pulled out of the boy and shifted them on the bed, wiping his fingers on the hideous duvet before covering Eggsy’s body with his own.

The boy was so,  _ so _ small beneath him—a fragile, quivering rabbit beneath the body of a hungry wolf—but he let himself be manhandled into the position Harry wanted him in. He kept the boy on his stomach, legs pressed tightly together.

Harry was surprised to find he quite liked Eggsy this way, too—pliant and trembling.

He slicked a palmful of lotion onto his cock and pressed himself between the squeeze of Eggsy’s thighs. Fucking himself into the warm friction felt exquisite, hovering over such a little, perfect body felt powerful.

He was close—so close—in an almost embarrassingly short amount of time, but he was so worked up and so turned on that he didn’t mind. He just wanted to come, to mark the boy, claim him as his own. He only needed something to push him over the edge.

Harry rose up onto his knees, watching his cock thrust in and out of smooth, spindly thighs, and spread the boy’s full arse cheeks with his rough palms.

He just wanted to—just a little—just for a moment—

Eggsy shrieked when Harry pressed his cock into his tight little hole and arched his back up like a cat. He struggled even as Harry came, painting the inside of the boy with his release.

Harry sighed as he pulled out of his shallow sheath, content and gratified. He wanted to capture the moment, this view forever and wished that he’d thought to bring his glasses along.

Eggsy was a vision, sprawled on the bed with his limbs akimbo. His chest heaved with shuddering breaths. Harry’s come leaked from Eggsy’s abused hole and his chubby little face was pink and streaked with tears.

Harry thought he looked lovely.

He tucked himself back into his pants and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Does your arm hurt?” he asked gently.

Eggsy sniffled and nodded.

“Let’s find you some paracetamol, then.”

He lead the boy to the loo, scavenging behind the mirror until he found the little bottle and a cup, and instructed Eggsy to sit on the edge of the tub until he returned.

It took him a bit to find plastic bags and rubber bands, but he was pleased to find Eggsy exactly where he left him.

He sat on the toilet and, without a word, pulled the boy closer so he could start wrapping the boy’s cast in the plastic. He was as gentle as he could be—and as thorough—and when he was done, he wrapped the boy in a hug.

Eggsy smelled of sunshine and sweat. Harry knew, then, what he would do.

Once he settled his little friend in the shower and tore his eyes away from the way the water beaded on Eggsy’s skin, he made his way across the corridor and opened the wardrobe door.

Michelle Unwin put as much hate as she could into her angry glare, though it was a bit hard to tell if the tears that streaked down her face were from what she’d seen or from the way the paralyzing darts kept her from blinking. In the end, like many things, it didn’t matter.

Harry pulled his gun from its holster and a suppressor from his pocket. While he screwed the suppressor on, he looked Eggsy’s mother dead in in the eye and spoke to her:

“You know, I think I’ll keep him.”


End file.
